


Gifts for a Templar

by TheWineDarkSea



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 11:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17161454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWineDarkSea/pseuds/TheWineDarkSea
Summary: For Khirsah’s Dragon Age Holiday prompt:Every holiday season needs its Grinch, and this year, it’s Cullen. He’s far too stressed and busy to be anything but annoyed at all the wintertide cheer floating around. Snowball fights? Caroling? Gift exchanges? WE ARE FIGHTING A WAR HERE, PEOPLE. Until a secret admirer starts leaving him small presents and sweet notes that begin to melt his Grinchy little heart and get him excited to open the greatest gift of all. (Romcom music swells.)





	Gifts for a Templar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Khirsah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khirsah/gifts).



Cullen woke to the sound of birds chirping. He lifted his head, and found several sheets of paper were stuck to his face. Maker, he’d fallen asleep at his desk… again. And, apparently, had been drooling on several important reports.

Perfect.

Groaning, Cullen rose from his chair, his cramped joints protesting the movement. He strode over to the window, looking for the source of the noise that had woken him. Brightly colored winter songbirds hopped along the battlements. Someone had been leaving berries and seeds out for the pests, by the look of it.

And—as luck would have it—it had snowed during the night. He’d overslept, and the sun was already rising, causing the spotless carpet of snow to sparkle.

It was the sort of mild winter morning that most people probably enjoyed.

But most people didn’t have an army camp to run, a war council meeting to prep for, and a _thousand_ other things to do. As lovely as the morning might be, it didn’t quite chase away the specter of the ancient demon magister trying to kill them all.

Cullen made himself as presentable as he could, donned his cloak, and left to meet his recruits for the first training session of the day.

Blessedly, the battlement walkways were clear. Skyhold workers hadn’t had the opportunity to remove the snow from the main courtyard yet, but that was just as well. Running drills in deep snow would serve as a useful training exercise.

His head was full of all the things he had to accomplish before the end of the day. He owed Leliana several reports that he hadn’t yet had the chance to review. He really hoped those hadn’t been the reports he’d drooled on; he’d never hear the end of it.

The thick carpet of snow muffled the everyday sounds of the courtyard. Normally at this time of day the yard would be filled with the sound of trainees preparing for the morning’s drills; testing out swords and donning armor, making repairs to equipment. A contingent of recruits had arrived from the Emerald Graves a week ago. They were a good group, dedicated and hard working.

Hang on. Was that… laughter?

Cullen picked up his pace and rounded the corner. The recruits weren’t prepared for the morning’s drills in the _least._ They were gallivanting through the fresh snow like a litter of Mabari pups, shouting happily and... having a snowball fight.

Cullen stopped in his tracks, baffled. These men and women were well into their training, and knew what was expected of them by now. What had gotten into them?

He pushed away a twinge of anxiety—they were having _fun_ after all; whatever was causing his recruits to shirk their morning duties couldn’t be that terrible. But given the bizarre and mostly unpleasant string of surprises he’d encountered in recent years, he tended to mistrust sea changes of any kind.

Cullen cleared his throat. “What in _Andraste’s name_ is going on here?”

The trainees froze. One who had been poised to throw a snowball dropped it and fell into a sloppy salute. The others followed suit, forming a sad excuse for a drill formation.

Cullen sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he tried to reign in his temper. He wasn’t going to chew them out for one small mistake, but he was in a mood to. He was tired, and he had a crick in his neck from sleeping on his desk.

The recruits made it through their morning drills without further issue. But they were easily distracted—much more so than usual. Cullen couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something important, and it set him on edge.

“Well done, recruits. This morning’s revelries notwithstanding. Dismissed.”

The trainees saluted, and then filed out of the training yard. A few lingered, and one of them kept casting animated looks at him, clearly eager to say something.

Perhaps it was the uncomfortable and limited sleep from the night before, or the obnoxious awakening he’d received, or the unexpected delay to the morning’s training, but Cullen was _not_ in a particularly patient mood. 

“Yes?” he said irritably.

“I only wanted to say, Happy Wintersend, Commander…” the recruit trailed off, his smile fading, as Cullen just stared at him. His compatriot took a reflexive step away from him.

Cullen knew he was glaring, and it was making the recruits fidgety, but he couldn’t stop. He’d _forgotten_ it was Wintersend. He’d probably seemed downright ill-tempered earlier.

Well, he already had a reputation for being exacting, and it was too late to rectify that now. Besides, it’s not like there was _time_ for holidays when the world was ending.

“Um. Nevermind, Commander. I’ll just go then?”

“Fine,” Cullen said, not really hearing the recruit. How had he not noticed that Wintersend was so soon? It was almost certainly too late now to attempt to obstruct any Skyhold festivities that had been planned. He had to find Josephine.

This seemed like exactly the sort of thing she would likely encourage, and he had to curb this… holiday cheer at once. It was giving him a headache just thinking about what it would mean for the troops’ standard of discipline once the rest of his people succumbed to the celebratory mood. They would expect time away from their duties, and presents, and for their Commander to be _jolly,_ or something equally ridiculous.

And they would only become more distracted once the celebrations began in earnest. He was unsure what the custom was in Orlais, but in some parts of Fereldan, the festivals could last for _days._

And this was _not_ _the time_ for celebration.

They were fighting _a war_. And Maker knew Corypheus and his ilk weren’t taking a week off to practice generosity and exchange gifts and enjoy fine food and warm drinks… No, they didn’t have time for this. _Any_ of it.

*********

“I am afraid extensive arrangements have already been made. We are not going to _cancel Wintersend_ simply because you ask. I am very sorry, Commander.”

“Funny. You don’t _sound_ sorry.”

“Don’t I?” Josephine said mischievously.  

Josephine was striding through the great hall as Cullen trailed sullenly behind her. The long feast tables already had elaborate, winter-themed table settings. Rich red and green banners hung from the walls, and the air smelled of mulled wine and spiced ham. Things were getting out of hand.

“I suppose it would be futile to ask _when_ exactly these extensive arrangements were made, as they were not once discussed in our council meetings?”

Josephine became suddenly very absorbed with a note she was writing on her clipboard, and seemed not to hear him.

“You were keeping this from me on purpose, weren’t you?”

“Of course not! It was simply decided that Wintersend plans fell outside the purview of a _war_ council.”

“Two days ago, you asked for the Inquisitor’s opinion on which type of lace napkins should be used to serve lady someone-or-other her tea.”

“Well… The Baroness of Val Colline is _quite_ particular about her tea time. It was a pertinent question.”

“Naturally.”

“And, you must admit, not nearly as time consuming as all of this would have been.” She gestured over the great hall, proudly surveying her handiwork. “The Inquisitor is far too busy to oversee such an endeavor.”

“Well, _I’m_ too busy to put up with everyone singing and dancing and being insufferably cheery—"

Josephine turned to him, eyebrows raised, giving him that patient, sisterly look she had that always made him feel like he was being an overdramatic fool. He looked away, rubbing the stubborn knot in his neck.

She was right, he _was_ probably overreacting. But while everyone else was enjoying spiced wine and warm biscuits and thoughtful gifts, _he_ would only be getting more stressed. He certainly wasn’t going to put everything on hold for days—not for Wintersend, not for _anything_ —which meant if that everyone else was celebrating, _he_ was going to have to be the one to pick up the slack.

“Cullen, our people need this. It isn’t good for them to be thinking about Corypheus and battles and impending doom _all_ the time.”

So, he was stuck with Wintersend at Skyhold, like it or not. He rubbed his eyes, trying not to think about the work that was probably piling up as they were speaking. He still had the rest of this week’s training sessions to plan, and he had to work out the new recruit’s assignments once that was done, and then there was the growing pile of unanswered letters on his desk…

“Perhaps diplomats have the luxury of thinking about parties instead of what’s important, but commanders do not.”

Josephine’s smile wavered for a moment, and Cullen felt a fierce stab of remorse. He hated upsetting Josephine. She dealt with enough bluster from the nobles and visiting diplomats everyday; he had no interest in causing her more trouble. He sighed. “I didn’t mean that. Everything you’ve done here is… very nice. You’re right.”

“You don’t sound very convincing.”                                

“I’m sorry, Josephine. I’m just… not in the mood for Wintertide this year.”

She gave him a cunning, playful smile. He knew that smile—It was the one she gave him when he was about to lose everything he was willing to wager in a game of Wicked Grace. “I think I can convince you otherwise.”

Cullen gave a dry laugh. Now _that_ was one wager Josephine would never win. “I wouldn’t hold your breath if I were you.”

*********

In the interest of avoiding further unwelcome holiday cheer, Cullen had holed himself up in his office, pouring over the papers that he hadn’t had the time to go through yesterday. There were several reports from Rylen that needed to be answered immediately, Wintersend or no.

He wondered if they were celebrating Wintersend in the Western Approach. Probably not. For once, he was actually jealous of his friend’s post. Blistering desert heat? Frigid nights? Poisonous sand creatures? They couldn’t possibly be worse than enduring dozens of visiting nobles and the usually sensible Skyhold personnel relentlessly trying to spread _Wintersend cheer_.

As Cullen formulated his reply to Rylen, he heard a commotion through the windows. He paused, listening. It sounded almost like…

Cullen rose from his desk warily, and made his way to the door with mounting dread.

He opened it to find four Inquisition scouts in winter attire, their faces were flushed with cold and happiness, singing at the top of their lungs.  

And they weren’t even any _good_.

They were almost as bad as templars. Nothing grated on the ears quite so much as two dozen overworked, military-minded men trying to sing the Chant during weekly services.

He slowly and deliberately shut the door in their faces, and locked it. He resisted the strong urge to bang his head against it. This was the final straw. As much as he hated going over Josephine’s head, he had to do it. He couldn’t _work_ like this. Who knew what cringe-worthy Wintersend surprise was waiting for him next?

He had to find the Inquisitor.

The problem was, she was notoriously difficult to find. While Leliana, Josephine, and himself had the good sense to work from their respective offices, or else stick to a reasonable schedule, the Inquisitor attended to her duties with organized chaos (though she was much more chaotic than organized, most days).

She could be in the rookery, or the stables, or the forge... She likely _wasn’t_ in her quarters. She liked to be on her feet, doing things. Leliana had to constantly hound her the turn in field reports, because she loathed sitting still long enough to write them.

In spite of the Inquisitor’s haphazard methods, Cullen enjoyed her company very much. Even with his never-ending list of tasks hanging over his head, spending time with her never felt like a distraction or a waste of time. It felt like a port in the storm.  

It had started to snow again. Large, lazy snowflakes that stuck to the fur of his cloak and covered everything in soft, white dust. Of course, nature itself was working to accommodate Josephine’s plans. If it was blustery and grey and nasty outside, at least it would encourage everyone to settle down and get some work done.

It was a mild day for winter, but after half an hour tromping back and forth across Skyhold, he was getting a little chilly. And _very_ covered in snow.

He finally found her in the library. She was standing near one of the shelves, pouring over a tome, brow furrowed in concentration. She looked up as he approached, and smiled warmly at him. He stumbled over one of the rugs on the stone library floor.

“Happy Wintersend, Commander.”

He faltered. She looked so happy and pleasantly un-stressed, it made him think twice about complaining about Wintersend. If anyone deserved to enjoy a few days’ holiday, it was her. Maybe he should leave it alone.

But then he thought of the faces of the four scouts and their very, _very,_ off key singing, and his resolve was renewed. Maybe he could persuade her to dial back the festivities just a _little._ His sanity depended on this.

“Yes, well… actually, that’s what I’ve come to speak to you about, Inquisitor.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I was hoping you would agree to… curb the Wintersend festivities. Or at least contain them to the great hall.” He bit back an imploring _please._ He didn’t want to sound too desperate.

“Ah. Josephine warned me about this,” she said, shutting her book.

“Inquisitor, there are people _caroling_ outside my office!”

“Unacceptable. Don’t they know there’s a war on?”

Cullen blinked. “Yes! Yes, that’s what I’ve been saying.” _Finally,_ someone who would listen.

“How dare anyone sing? They are allowed only to be glum and dreary at a time like this. I shall notify them at once.”

“Ah. You’re mocking me.”

She grinned at him. “Well, don’t say it like you’ve just learned what sarcasm is, Commander. I’ve seen you in the war room, I know there’s a sassy heart under that curmudgeonly exterior.” She tapped him in the chest with her book.

What? He wasn’t a… _curmudgeon_.

“I’m afraid I only have a limited daily supply of sarcasm, Inquisitor. And I expend all of it in the span of a single hour in the war room, trying to keep up with Josephine and Leliana. And you.”

“Hm. We really are too witty for our own good, aren’t we?”

“The three of you together are… truly incorrigible, that’s certain.”

“Well, we have to find some way to entertain ourselves, don’t we?” She took a step toward him, then reached up and began brushing off his shoulders.

He stilled under her unexpected touch.  A pleasant, breathless excitement stirring in him at having her so close. It had been a long time since they had last had a few leisurely moments together. He’d missed them.

But he was letting himself get distracted from his purpose here. “What are you doing?”

“You’re going to get soaking wet, standing around covered in snow. It’s already melting.”

“Ah. Right.” He hastily brushed the snow off his hair before it could melt; his curls would become embarrassingly unruly if they were allowed to dampen and dry on their own.

As he finished dusting himself off, the Inquisitor walked over to a small table, where a carafe and mugs were sitting. She filled one of the mugs and pushed it into his hands. “Here.”

“What is this?”

“Hot chocolate. If you take fine chocolate shavings and mix it with hot milk—”

“Yes, I’ve had hot chocolate before, thank you.”

She smiled. “Well, what are you waiting for, then?”

He begrudgingly took a sip to humor her. There was something about how warm and playful she was being that made him not want to return to his office, at least not right now.

The drink was creamy and rich and delicious, and _just_ the right temperature. Warmth bloomed pleasantly in his chest as he swallowed, chasing away the chill. He relaxed slightly, only now realizing how stiffly he’d been holding his shoulders.

“See? Wintersend isn’t all bad.”

“It _has_ been all bad. Except for right now, with you.”

“I’m pleased you think so.”

The soft note in her voice made him look up at her. She wasn’t looking at him; she was ostensibly preoccupied with pouring herself a mug, but she was blushing. He suddenly felt very awkward and clumsy. He set his mug on the table for fear he’d spill it all over and make a fool of himself.

“I didn’t intend to, um….”          

“Compliment me?”

“No. I mean, yes. I suppose…”

She took a sip from her drink, raising an eyebrow at him over the rim of her mug, which only made his stuttering _worse_.

“You know, it’s both endearing and painful to watch you accidentally flirt with someone.”

Now _he_ was blushing. It was somehow his inevitable misfortune that all the women in his life discovered just how easy it was to fluster him. His sisters—and then Leliana and Josephine—found his discomfort endlessly amusing.

And now, apparently, the Inquisitor had joined the growing list. Just what he needed.

He sighed. “You sound like Hawke.”

“Is that an insult?”

“ _Yes_.”

She shrugged, her grin returning. “I like Hawke. Also, how dare you insult me.”

“I have a feeling you’ll survive.”

She sat in one of the chairs next to the small table, and beckoned him to the other. “Care to join me?”

It was so very, _very_ tempting to take her up on that offer. But he knew if he took even a moment to slow down, there was a mountain of worries and tasks and anxieties that were bound to catch up with him.

And he very much wanted the Inquisitor to enjoy his company as much as he enjoyed hers. If he sat down with her only to be entirely preoccupied with all the things he _wasn’t_ attending to… perhaps she wouldn’t give him another invitation.

“I’m very sorry, Inquisitor, but… I can’t. Another time, perhaps?”

Her face fell. His stomach twisted unpleasantly, but he didn’t relent. He wouldn’t be good company for her right now.

“Of course, Cullen,” she said. “Another time.”

He was unsure of how to take his leave, so he gave her a stiff, awkward bow, regretted it immediately, and then turned on his heel and walked briskly away.

*********

Afraid he would be cornered by carolers again, Cullen didn’t return to his office. He spent the afternoon giving his sergeants instructions on the week’s training drills, then—when it became too late in the afternoon for him to in good conscience keep them from the festivities—he dismissed them and headed for the armory.

It was empty. The workers had been given the day off, no doubt. Cullen gathered the necessary supplies, took a seat at the whet stone, and began the process of sharpening and oiling his blade. Maintaining his weapons and armor was a task he liked to do himself, trivial as it was.

It felt good to be busy with something simple and familiar. The work was menial enough that his mind could rest, but engaging enough that his thoughts didn’t have leave to go spinning off in unwelcome directions. On days when it felt like his troubles were pressing in on him from all sides, it was one of his favorite things to do.

It felt especially silly that today of all days he would be struggling, when everyone else in Skyhold seemed to have no trouble cutting loose and enjoying one another’s company. When he finished, he stowed his weapon safely, and reluctantly returned to his office.

When he arrived, he found—sitting on his desk and wrapped in a bow— a steak and ale pot pie, just like they used to have during Wintertide in Fereldan. He breathed deeply, inhaling to scent of buttery pastry and fresh thyme. It smelled like home.

It was probably poisoned.

No, _no._ He was just being paranoid, surely. It was difficult sometimes to tamp down that niggling little voice at the back of his head shouting _Trap! Trap! Trap!_ at every unexpected turn of events—especially on days when he was already on edge. He’d developed a pounding headache over the course of the day, and he had enough to deal with already without having to decide what to do about a possibly deadly but probably harmless meat pie.

And... He really didn’t want to think of his siblings right now, or his little nieces and nephews in Fereldan, and how much he missed them. He’d made promises to Mia year after year that he’d make time to spend the holidays with them, but somehow time always got away from him.

He hoped she and her family were celebrating a calm and happy Wintersend. But with how uncertain the world was right now, there was always a part of him that wondered if they were safe. Even pleasant thoughts of them had the tendency to turn sour. He’d seen and heard of too many innocent families getting caught in the crossfires of some disaster or other these days.

He took a long, rueful breath and, feeling immensely silly, tossed the pie out the window.

“I’m no expert on Fereldan cuisine, but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to eat those.”

Cullen stiffened, his face going hot. _Perfect_. As if he didn’t feel like enough of a fool, now there was a witness to his outlandish behavior. He turned to find the Inquisitor—of _course_ it had to be her, of all people—watching him with amusement.

“Whenever I come in here, you’re throwing things.”

“Inquisitor! I was just… well…”

She leaned against the door frame. “Do go on, I’m very much looking forward to your explanation.”

He sighed, rubbing his temples and trying to assuage his headache. “I’d… rather _not_ explain, if that’s all right. It’s just these last few weeks have been…” He trailed off.   _Overwhelming,_ he’d been about to say. But this was the Inquisitor he was talking to. She didn’t need people complaining to her about how _overwhelmed_ they were, when she surely had more burdens than any of them.

“I understand,” she said, her voice softer now. The mischievous gleam in her eyes and teasing smile had faded. He was sorry for that. As trying as this day had been, the last thing he wanted was her to suffer for it.

 _This isn’t like me,_ he had the strong urge to tell her. _I am capable, and good at my job, and not at all the sort of person who throws perfectly fine, delicious-smelling food out a window for no good reason._

But he hated excuses—making them and hearing them—so he held his tongue. And besides, today he was, apparently, the exact type of person who made irrational decisions like throwing delicious-smelling food out a window for no good reason.

He started shuffling papers around on his desk—reports from Rylen that still needed reading, requests from his officers, Orleisan marriage proposals annotated by Leliana—she’d been slipping the particularly ridiculous ones into his work papers recently, complete with her observations and sarcastic quips in the margins. She likely thought he’d find them amusing.

He’d never admit it to her, but he _was_ amused by them—by Leliana’s observations, at least. The proposals themselves he found acutely embarrassing. 

“Cullen?”

“Hm?”

“Maybe… someone left it for you, as a gift.”

“But who? And _why?_ ”

She stared at him. She opened her mouth to say something, paused, and then closed it, looking confused.

“You’re staring.”

“Yes.”

“Please stop.”

“I’m just… confused, I suppose. Did Templars not get gifts in the Circle?”

“They didn’t, actually. It wasn’t really…" He trailed off, scowling. “I know how to receive a gift, Inquisitor.”

“So what’s bothering you so much?”

“It’s—” He waved a hand vaguely in the air. “All of this. _Wintersend._ It’s not the same, away from your family, in a position of leadership. People expect you to behave a certain way…” He cast a hesitant glance at her. She was a leader, too. She was _the_ leader. Surely she didn’t have patience for hearing her advisors moan about their duties.

But she was watching him expectantly, and didn’t seem irritated in the least, so he continued. It felt good, getting some of it off his chest. “So much is already expected of me—of _us._ I can’t meet everyone’s expectations, but I _can_ be a good commander. So that’s what I intend to do, no matter the distractions.”

“Ah,” she said quietly.

“I suppose you must think me very foolish now.” He gestured toward the window. “After that.”

“Not at all. Just very stressed, perhaps. Cullen… have you eaten today, at least?”

“Well…” Had he eaten? It’s true, some days he forgot to pause for meals. The loud rumbling of his stomach answered for him.

She gave him a knowing smirk. “Come to the kitchens with me, Commander.” She took his hand.

He blushed deeply, and was profoundly grateful that she was looking ahead and not back at him as she led him from his office.  

It was still snowing outside. It was getting dark now, but the night seemed bright with the blankets of snow coating the courtyard below them and settling over the stone walls of Skyhold keep. Cullen was content to walk hand-in-hand with the Inquisitor through the quiet night. He took a deep breath of the crisp night air, feeling content for the first time this day.

The kitchens were buzzing with activity when they reached them. Preparations for Josephine’s epic Wintersend feast, no doubt.

The Inquisitor made a signal to the cook, then led him to a small room with a table and chairs that was used by the staff as a break room. Minutes later, the kitchen staff set a tray in front of them, full of seasoned meats, potatoes smothered in gravy, and pudding.

Cullen wolfed down the food enthusiastically. It probably wasn’t a dignified sight, but here in this warm and cozy back room, he didn’t feel self-conscious. And the food was _delicious._ It was amazing, really, how much a good meal could improve a person’s mood.

When they’d finished eating, the Inquisitor brought them steaming mugs of mulled wine.

“This was nice. It… reminded me of home.” He hadn’t spoken of his home in a long time. Not since the last time he and the Inquisitor and had played chess in the Skyhold courtyard.

“You miss your family?” she asked.

“I…. yes.”

“Would you tell me about what your Wintersends were like growing up?”

He smiled. He told her about his childhood winters in Fereldan, before he joined the Templars, and felt a little less homesick for his family. They didn’t have much in the way of gifts, but the food was always delicious, and his favorite part of the celebration anyway. The food, and seeing his siblings happy.

They talked together for a long time, and—thank the _Maker_ —she never once suggested they join the nobles upstairs.

It turned out this wasn’t the wasn’t the _worst_ Wintersend he’d ever had. In fact, it was turning out to be one of the best in a long, long time.

*********

The next morning, he found a note left on his desk.  

_I hope you know how grateful I am for all you’ve done for the Inquisition—and for me—this past year. You don’t have to celebrate Wintersend, but please remember that taking care of yourself is never a waste of time, Cullen Rutherford. If you ever need to enjoy a cup of hot chocolate or a warm meal with someone, come find me._

_P.S.  You are a very difficult man to shop for, you know. I’m afraid I was not equal to the challenge. If you think of a gift that would please you, do let me know._

He stood staring at the note in his hand for a long while. He read it several more times. She’d asked him to _think of a gift that would please him_ , and now—he couldn’t help it—he was thinking of her, in his arms, her lips against his, his hands...

Well, enough of that. He should really find her and… thank her. For her kindness the other day.

He left his office, the note still clutched in his hand. He had to struggle with the door against the two feet of snow on the other side. It was before dawn, and the fresh blanket of snow outside was still undisturbed. He trudged through the drift towards the keep. He hoped the Inquisitor was easier to find today, otherwise this would be a tiring endeavor.

She was in the great hall, sitting at a table by the large fireplace, reading her book. The room was completely empty otherwise. Table settings and decorations from yesterday’s feat had been cleared, and it was too early for any dignitaries to be milling about.

He approached her, feeling an odd mix of apprehension and excitement stirring in his gut.

“Inquisitor, hello. I… wanted to thank you.” He held up the now-crumpled note. “For this.”

“My pleasure.”

“Might I ask why you went through all the trouble?”

She blinked several times, surprised. Then she gave him a sly smile and turned back to her book, absently turning a page.

“You upset my diplomat. I told her I’d get you on board with the festivities.”

He deflated a little at that. “You did all this to make Josephine happy?”

She shut her book. Then she stood from her table and took a step closer to him. “I did it because I wanted _you_ to be happy, Cullen. I’d thought that was obvious.”

His face was getting very, very hot. And she was standing very, very close. And he was not good at all dealing with situations like this. “That’s… very nice.”

She searched his face a moment, then sighed and took a step away. Cullen had the strong impression that he was messing this up rather badly. He reached out and took hold of her arm. “Wait.”

She turned back to him expectantly, but he had no idea what to say, only that he wanted to keep her here until he made her as happy as she’d made him last night and this morning. So he started rambling.

“You know, we have a tradition in Fereldan—I’m not sure if it’s the same where you’re from—but... we would hang mistletoe over a doorway, and if a couple were to stand underneath, they would, um…”

That spark was back in her eye. “Let me guess. They would kiss?”

“Yes, they would.”

“Well, I’m not certain I can supply Fereldan mistletoe on such short notice…” She tilted her face up toward his, her lips temptingly close. “But I _can_ offer a kiss.”

He cupped her face in his hands, lowered his face to hers, and kissed her.

She clutched his coat in both her hands and took a few steps backward, leading him back with her until she could sit on the tabletop. She guided his hands over her body, resting them on her hips.

He gripped her tightly and pulled her closer, until she was pressed snugly against him. She gave a pleased gasp as he deepened their kiss, and he responded with a soft, answering rumble in the back of his throat.

“Ahem.”

Cullen jumped, breaking their kiss. He turned toward the voice. Josephine was standing in the great hall behind them, hands on her hips.

The Inquisitor slid off the table. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and whispered into his ear. “Another time, perhaps?”

“Another time, certainly,” he murmured back. She smiled, trailing her fingers along the palm of his hand as she stepped away.

Cullen looked after her for a moment, then turned to face the Ambassador.

“Josephine! You’re looking… smug, this morning.”

“Mmm. And you seem to be enjoying your Wintersend after all. Unless my eyes deceive me.”

“Well. Change of heart, I suppose.”

“It seems so.” She gave him a devious smile. “Never bet against an Antivan, Commander.”

“Perhaps. But I think the lesson I learned is never to bet against _you,_ Josephine.”

Josephine gave a satisfied _hmph_ and strode away.

*********

Cullen’s recruits were early that morning. They were already prepared and at attention by the time he arrived at the training grounds.

He saw the Inquisitor perched on the fence on the outskirts of the training ring, and he realized running drills for two hours was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment.

“Actually, drills are cancelled this morning. Take the day off.”

The recruits exchanged uncomfortable glances. “We’ll do better than we did yesterday, Commander. Honest.”   

Cullen scowled. “This isn’t a punishment, recruit,” he said, realizing that the scowl was probably counterproductive. He was trying to do something _nice_. Was that so hard to believe?

He glanced at the fence again… and the Inquisitor wasn’t there. She was closer now, bending down to pack together a handful of snow.

“Oh, no you don’t—” He took a few bounding steps through the deep snow toward her, but he knew he wasn’t going to make it.

She drew her arm back and launched the snowball at him. He raised his hand just in time to keep the projectile from hitting him square in the face. The snowball shattered against his arm in a burst of snow.

He crouched, hastily making a snowball of his own as she charged toward him. He stood, ready to throw, but she was already there, hooking her leg around his and throwing off his center of balance. Hang on, _he’d_ taught her that move…

He tumbled backward into the deep snow, laughing. She landed on top, straddling him and smiling broadly.

“You’ve been practicing,” he said.

“Sera has been training me in snowball fight combat. It’s been a school of hard knocks, let me tell you.”

He chuckled. “I don’t doubt it. But I meant the hand-to-hand move.”

“Ah. I’ve been practicing that, too.” She leaned down toward him. “And you’ve been an excellent tutor.”

Her body was warm, resting on top of his. He was cushioned in several inches of snow, and it felt like just the two of them out here.

“I think I might be coming around to your and Josephine’s view of Wintersend.”

“Is that so? Well, allow me to convince you further.”

She leaned down to kiss him again. Happiness spread through him. He didn’t even care that his hair and backside were getting hopelessly soaked by melted snow. This was _worth_ it.

Cullen smiled to himself as the sound of shouts and laughter erupted around them, and the recruits began a snowball fight of their own.  

He had to admit; taking a holiday wasn’t such a bad idea after all.


End file.
